Midnight 01 - Luisa's Desire

wine—each pleasure doubled by being shared. Even sunset, she discovered, possessed a deeper charm. A glimmer of scarlet still blooded her windows' mullioned diamond panes. She had had her blessed soak and was now being dressed for her first dinner since their return.
     
    Martin lounged against the bedpost to watch the maids prepare her. Outwardly amused, the gleam in his eye bespoke arousal. To him, her Western clothes were like a whiff of she-cat to a torn. His nostrils flared as her whale-bone stays encased her smock, followed by the hip-widening cage of the farthingale. As her skirts were eased down the frame, he had to shift one ankle over the other. The way her breasts over-swelled the bodice made his gaze shoot aqua fire. When the maids began pinning jewels onto her slashed and embroidered sleeves, however, he could not restrain a laugh.
     
    "Behold the glittering idol," he said, spreading his arms in a gesture he had been practicing for a week. The pose was convincingly Florentine. "Tell me, milady, is there an inch of that gown that does not bristle with lace and bows and a sultan's ransom in precious stones?"
     
    "Pray God there is not!" she huffed, surprising the younger maid into a laugh. Both girls curtsied when she dismissed them, leaving her alone with her new spouse.
     
    Unaccountably nervous, she adjusted her open ruff. With a small, quirked smile and a careful foot, Martin stepped into the circle of her skirts. In waves of emerald silk they spread around the giltwood stool on which she sat. As if to make certain she was real, he touched her powdered cheek. The cosmetic pinked her skin, a requirement for one so fair when mixing with mortal guests.
     
    "My attire is part of doing business," she explained. "People do not believe you are successful unless you put on a show, and unless they believe you are successful, they will not help you to be more so."
     
    "Is that what you want, to be more successful?"
     
    Heart overflowing, she kissed his hand. "How I love you. When you ask a question, you never act as if you will judge the answer. I enjoy my success, yes. I worked hard for it. It is also a kind of safety. The Inquisition cast a shadow, you know, not as long in Florence as elsewhere, but such dark days I shall not soon forget. Besides"—she flashed a smile—"someone must fund the ventures of men whose stockings are full of holes."
     
    "Is that what you do?"
     
    "Among other things. I am not one lone woman anymore, I am a net of enterprise. My success supports that of others and that, too, warms my pride."
     
    "And these partners do not know what you are?"
     
    "No. Only my lawyer and his venerable father know. The Vasari are a proud Florentine family, back from when the great casate built towers to defend against being assassinated by their rivals. Old and young Piero understand loyalty—and discretion. I shall have to start silvering my hair, though, soon enough." She touched the youthful coils that supported her velvet cap. "After a time, I shall go into seclusion, perhaps even leave the country. Then, once I pass quietly away, I can return as some far-flung niece and heir."
     
    Martin rubbed his nose. "It seems complicated."
     
    "It is inconvenient," she admitted, "but necessary, and considerate in its way. If people do not know for certain why you are odd, they are content to have you be so."
     
    "As long as you are successful."
     
    Luisa smiled at his quickness. "Precisely."
     
    "I have much to learn," he said, and plopped down on their bed. The feather bolster fluffed around his hips but could not detract from his dignity, no more than could his foreign clothes.
     
    Much as Martin enjoyed her dress, he had been shocked by the fashions for men: their expense, their colors, their—to him—immodesty. But "I do not mind," he had assured her. "I cannot make friends for Tibet unless people see me as one of them. It is only, well, to wear this garb in public…"
     
    Since he was determined to try, she had steered his disappointed tailor to the less flamboyant products of his trade. Now a pair of snug black Venetians, sans padding, hugged Martin's well-formed thighs. The ice blue doublet displayed his shoulders to perfection and the blazing white neck ruff, small though it was, enhanced the still-warm color of his skin.
     
    Despite his discomfort, his regal bearing and natural talent for mimicry carried off the style. With his hair growing out, his wonderful Asian face almost